Crossing the tundra

Chemo Christmas has come and gone.

SLC was blessed with a bunch of snow, which made staying inside and laying on the couch seem a bit more festive. In terms of side effects, I am experiencing chemo round #3 as a bit more intense than rounds #1 and #2, at least in the rubrik of fatigue. However, this proclamation is still up for debate: since the first two rounds did not fall on holidays, I did not have the luxury of staying home and indulging my symptoms with bouts of napping interspersed with eating, making tea, watching YouTube videos, and moaning.

Monday was certainly the hardest chemo day I've had so far insofar as getting motivated to do anything.  Thankfully, we had our tiny Christmas tree decorated already or it would have been way beyond my detail capacity to get that done. Thankfully, Sawyer had a dinner plan that was not the least hindered by a supine wife  (in fact, I suspect things are a measure easier for him without the constant barrage of commentary like "Did you mean to leave this burner on high?" and "You know, the wand blender might work better for that..." that seem to emanate from me whenever Sawyer is in the kitchen) And I was able to get up and eat it in good appetite between sleeping on the couch and "actual" bedtime.

Mostly, I've been struggling to think of what might be interesting to write about at this time. A dear friend and trusted editorial voice in my life gently chided that my blog had become boring of late.

Art imitates life.

The fact is, I have moved out of " Eye of the Tiger" phase of cancer battle and treatment, and am now way out in the middle of a tundra, mushing along. There is a horizon line visible, but it actually feels better not to fixate on it because this is the Iditerod, and I have days to clock yet. Yes, the halfway mark for chemo is nigh - by my conservative estimate it will be next week (half way past the third of six chemos) -  but that doesn't feel near enough to the end to start planning for the finish line.  And when chemo is done I still have 6 weeks of daily radiation.
 
Still being in the throes of the latest toxic baptism, I admit I am less plucky in my attitude than usual.  I comfort myself with the thought that one can only have peaks if there are some valleys for scale. Knowing there is an inevitability about the accumulative effects starting to stack up is sobering, but there is also the evidence that suggests that, as bad as it gets, it's just not going to be that bad for me. My peaks still seem more prominent than my valleys, and though the mild flu feeling may have progressed to a medium flu, it does (eyelid twitches and sore fingernails aside) still feel like a flu.

Getting the flu every three weeks for about a week is kind of novel the first few times, but it does grow a bit tedious. I almost hope for some wacky new symptoms to be able to write about next time. Cancer blogs as a genus are unfortunately ill-equipped for the new media economy. There just isn't enough new materials to hold the reader through the months of treatment. For my long-term prognosis, this is a good thing. A more aggressive cancer would have lent a lot of literary zest. So, I have been advised, would out-and-out fabrication. However, my chemo brain has robbed me of the majority of my creativity at the moment and I cannot even think what I would choose to fabricate for your enjoyment.


 I am trying to avoid having a "bitch sandwich" here and just go full-blown on my bitching in one post so I can get back to Sally Sunshine later  (a reference for those of you  - often educators - who remember being taught to mete out constructive feedback within two slices of praise: "the compliment sandwich").  I fly to Seattle tomorrow and perhaps just the change of scene will have this effect and I will bounce back into my hairless, lopsided new normal soon.

Today, I feel like cancer is really getting me where it counts: boobs, hair, and creativity.